


Holiday Traditions

by zilia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas, Clint hates Christmas, F/M, First Kiss, Foliage, Kissing, Mistletoe, Oral Sex, SHIELD has a questionable HR department, posting Christmas fic nowhere near Christmas because I'm bad at sticking to deadlines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 08:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zilia/pseuds/zilia
Summary: Clint changes his mind about Christmas.





	Holiday Traditions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claudia_flies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/gifts).



> Written for my MCU Kink Bingo "Trope: First Kiss" square and as a VERY late Christmas present for my awesome partner-in-crime Claudia_flies, who is patience incarnate. Sadly, it's inescapably Christmas-themed, so please enjoy this Christmas fic in March because I can't stick to deadlines.

Christmas. Fucking Christmas.

Clint has never really been a Christmas kind of guy. Too many years without any family to speak of, all the commercials and music and movies reflecting something that was nothing like his actual life, to say nothing of how cold and miserable it is to live in a circus trailer in the winter. It’s better now he’s an adult and a SHIELD agent, because he can take the field missions that run over Christmas that nobody else wants and as a bonus, he gets to avoid most other people.

That’s why this year, it’s an absolute kick in the balls that he has to stay behind and work in the Triskelion because there are no field missions running. He hasn’t been here over Christmas since his very first year as a recruit, and the official SHIELD policy on the holiday season appears to be the total opposite of his own. The PA system has been commandeered to blast inane Christmas music in between official SHIELD broadcasts, there are garlands and ribbons hanging from the walls, and the _pièce de fucking résistance_ is that there’s mistletoe everywhere. What asshole put that up?

Clint is sure that this probably breaches workplace regulations, but Fury had yelled at him to get out of his office when he’d tried to raise it.

He’s so busy in his own personal cloud of rage that he barrels into Natasha and almost knocks her flying. He brings himself up short, knowing what happened to the last guy who caught her off-guard.

“Clinton?”

He loves that she calls him _Clinton_ when absolutely nobody else on the planet does. He knows she does it to tease him, exaggerating her otherwise non-existent Russian accent, and he has no idea why, but it gives him a little warm glow of happiness every time. Actually, if he’s being honest with himself, there’s nothing about Natasha that he doesn’t love, but that _definitely_ is against workplace policies 

“Yeah?”

“Why is there this plant everywhere?”

It’s impossible to pretend that he doesn’t understand her, given that _she’s pointing right at the fucking stuff that is right over their fucking heads, fucking fucking fuck_ , but he makes a valiant effort nevertheless. “What? What plant?”

“The plant. On the ceiling.”

_Ok. Keep it together, Barton._

“It’s mistletoe,” he says, hoping that’ll be enough, but of course, the gods of Christmas spit on him once again and she continues to look puzzled, her eyes wide and innocent. Maybe it doesn’t grow in Russia?

“Mistletoe. It’s…it’s for kissing.” _Smooth, Barton._ His ears are bright red. It feels like being back in seventh grade.

“Kissing? You have to kiss it?”

Oh God. Hearing Natasha say the word _kissing_ is somehow even worse than saying it in her presence. “No. No, no, no, no, no. You don’t kiss it. I’m pretty sure it’s poisonous. It’s a Christmas thing. You, um, kiss people under it.”

“ _Why_?”

He honestly has no idea why. “Because assholes like making their co-workers feel awkward and sanctioning workplace sexual assault?” he snaps, and then immediately regrets it when she looks taken aback. “I’m sorry. It’s just, Christmas.”

This explains precisely nothing, but she generously nods as though it does, and then looks up at the damned plant again.

“So if we’re under mis-tle-toe,” she pronounces it very carefully, like it’s a strange word to her, “and it’s a Christmas tradition, then we should kiss, yes?”

Time stands still for a moment, and he doesn’t know whether to try to edge away to avoid embarrassing himself in case she isn’t serious or to stay still, because _maybe, just maybe…_ Even though he’s known Natasha for a few months now, he’s still never sure when she’s joking. She has such a deadpan delivery that it always takes him a while to work it out. She’s staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face, and he has to say _something_ , but somehow what comes out is a wordless sound.

Natasha, clearly deciding to move past that for both their sakes, rolls her eyes and says, “I want to kiss you, Clinton.”

No. No way. He can’t believe this is happening. It’s like the beginning of the most ridiculous Christmas porn ever. He must be dreaming. Or dying from mistletoe fumes. “What? No. No you don’t. Wait. Do you?”

She rolls her eyes, an exasperated scowl on her face that’s enough to strike terror into the heart of anyone with sense. Sadly, Clint has never had any sense.

“ _Yes_.”

Taking matters into her own hands, she stomps towards him, seizes a handful of his hair, tugs his head down, and kisses him. She’s so much shorter than him it almost hurts his neck, but he doesn’t care. It’s possibly the least romantic kiss he’s ever had, but he’d take a permanent neck-crick if it meant he could kiss her every day. Tentatively, he lets his hands drop from their frozen, shocked position in mid-air and settles them on her waist. He’s just starting to accept that this is definitely happening and not some mad amazing crazy dream when she suddenly relaxes her grip on his hair and pulls back, eyes wide.

“Is this workplace sexual assault?” she demands, and Clint could murder himself for saying that earlier, he really could.

“No. Most definitely not. Well. I mean it would be, if I didn’t want it.” _Shut up brain shut up shut up shut up you’re going to fuck this up for both of us._ “But I do. Want it. Yes. Carry on.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he’s reminded that he’s in the middle of the main corridor of the Triskelion. There have got to be better places to do this. Places that don’t involve colleagues tripping over them.

“Should we, um, maybe take this somewhere more private?” he suggests, gesturing at the seminar rooms to either side of the corridor. She considers him for a moment and then nods, taking him by the hand and leading him to the closest one. He has to almost run to keep up with her.

Once they’re inside, she shuts the door behind them, shoots the bolt, and then leaps at him. She’s short and easy to lift, but he still hits the door with a slight _thunk_. As if his head wasn’t spinning enough already. He gets his hands under her ass and she nips at his tongue enthusiastically, so he kisses her harder. It feels almost like a sparring session, like the dozens of times they’ve trained together, anticipating each other’s moves, alternating between trying to catch each other out and moving in sync.

They slide down the door until they’re in a heap on the floor, and she rolls them over so that he’s on top. For a moment, they just look at each other, catching their breath. Clint is kind of afraid to say anything in case he either ruins this or wakes himself up from the best dream of his life, so he keeps quiet, instead just drinking Natasha in, enjoying the luxury of being able to look at her as much as he wants instead of pretending that he isn’t. Her shirt has rucked up while they’ve been kissing, and he can’t resist stroking the skin there, dropping his lips to taste it.

She gives a quiet moan, and when he looks up, the look she gives him so clearly says “yes, you may proceed,” that he grins and gets back to work, kissing and licking with light, teasing touches. Her hands come to rest in his hair, guiding his head lower, down over the base of her ribs, her stomach, the dip between her hipbones. Her breathing shudders. Lower. His mouth hovers above the waistband of her pants, and he takes a moment to gasp, “Is this ok?” and then she almost stamps her foot with frustration. _That’ll be a yes, then._

Together, they get her pants undone, and she wriggles them down her hips along with her panties until they bunch around her ankles, held in place by her boots. She parts her legs as far as her clothing allows, showing herself to him, and Clint recognises it for the gift that it is, and is determined to be worthy of it. The scent of her here is heady and musky, and for a moment he just catches his breath, teasing her with every exhale by breathing over her clit. She wriggles, frustrated, not getting enough friction, and finally he relents and tastes her with the tip of his tongue.

She moans again, and he licks over her a second time, giving her more pressure. He wishes he could take his time here and really wind her up before giving her what she wants, but she growls “ _more_ ,” and he suddenly remembers that he’s seen her break a man’s neck with her thighs and feels particularly vulnerable. He licks again, over and over, feeling the minute trembling of her muscles all around him and hearing her cries. He wants to make it last, like he’s dreamed of doing, but being surrounded by her like this is assaulting his senses, and he only avoids coming himself by focusing on bringing her off first. As he licks her, she takes one of his hands and guides it inside her, holding it steady so she can grind against his fingers. Her breathing becomes harsher and her movements more frantic, and together they get her over the edge and she clenches around him, coming with a gasp.

Afterwards, they lie side-by-side on the floor, panting and sweating and completely dishevelled.

“Clinton?” Natasha says, after a moment.

“Yes, my lady?”

Silently, they both agree not to comment on this.

“What sort of plant should we have been under in order to do that?” she asks, her face perfectly straight except for a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Well, strictly speaking, it should have been the clit flower, but they’re very rare this time of year, so I don’t think we’ll get in trouble with Human Resources as long as we fill in the right paperwork.”

She laughs, and kisses him, and then punches him lightly on the arm. It still hurts. He’s kind of aroused by it.

“You knew about mistletoe already, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” She looks so innocent that she has to be guilty, a grin dancing around her eyes. “But it was funny watching you try to explain.”

He groans, embarrassed. “Thanks a lot, Nat.”

“Funny and cute,” she amends, dropping the pretence and grinning properly. “So, that’s your tradition. Let me show you one of mine.” She gets to her feet and offers him a hand up. “There’s a Christmas tree on Level 7. Let’s find something fun to do under it.”

Clint follows, pretty sure he’s looking at his happiest Christmas in years.

 


End file.
